


Eulogy of Pogtopia

by Corvusix



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gen, I only tagged the characters that have more than 2 lines, personification of Pogtopia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 14:21:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29279880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corvusix/pseuds/Corvusix
Summary: L'Manburg born, died, reborn, and went out one last time with big bangs. Gunpowder and sound of explosion and the scent of blood. He was celebrated and congratulated, resented and hated, mourned and remembered.Pogtopia had none of that.She was born in secrecy through whispers and sworn loyalties under a wavering candle light. She didn't collapse overnight, but instead slowly crumbling away with time and negligence. She was forgotten, abandoned, stripped of the memories until nothing but dust, cobwebs, and a bad aftertaste lingered.Here's an eulogy to Pogtopia.
Relationships: Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Comments: 5
Kudos: 44





	Eulogy of Pogtopia

**Author's Note:**

> *hands you a badly drawn driver’s license* Here’s my artist license to simplify and rearrange timeline and events.

The young one was the one who awakened her at first.

A pickaxe half-heartedly dug into her outer layers until they reached the hollow core. She watched with bleary eyes and hazy mind how the young one with soft hair like spools of gold and a tattered red shirt let out an excited gasp as he explored her with the kind of curiosity only a young heart can possess, and called out to his friend.

The friend was an odd one, she observed as the taller man wrapped a dark cloak around himself before stepping in, a guitar strapped to his back. Despite his tired smile at the young man, his heart was filled with sorrow and grief, leaving no space for appreciation and discovery. This was someone who had flown too high and crashed too hard, she mused, watching the taller man putting the loved and worn guitar against the wall and wondered what kind of tune he would bring to the ravine.

The young one with hair of gold spent the first night chiseling out a pathway, hands bruised and sweaty around the pickaxe's handle as he let out strings of colorful curses under his breath. The musician spent the first night sitting by a lone candle, storm brewing in his dark eyes and revenge clouding his mind.

It was a quiet night.

A newcomer came at dawn, weary from the travel, but his cape was as red as blood and his crown as bright as the sun. The child of Nether had a footstep lighter than his look, clicking and clanking through her narrow hallways before stopping in front of a tamed wolf.

"Good boy." He whispered, scratching the animal behind its ears. "Where are your owners?"

The young man gave him a passionate pat on the back and the musician shook hands with him, a too-bright smile plastered on his face. The newcomer stood awkwardly, fidgeting with the cape behind his back. They called him the Blade, sharp and invincible and only meant for blood.

She decided that she prefer calling him the child of Nether.

Despite her lack of general knowledge of mortal beings, she knew the food they shared that night was meager to the point of pathetic as they huddled around the only furnace for warmth. That wasn't enough to douse the young one's cheer as he talked animatedly about some places in a distant land, putting down claims and making plans. The place sounded wonderful.

The child of Nether took one last sip from his bowl and glanced around the dark ravine with indifferent eyes.

"Does this place have a name?"

The musician put his mug down.

"I'm thinking...Mancave."

She would not be called _that_.

The young one wiped the smudges of stew off his face and pondered for a moment.

“I have a name that I didn’t get to use. How about... _Pogtopia_?”

So she was named.

The newly-named Pogtopians dispersed to spend the night.

The young one tossed and turned in his rest, dreamed of a piece of land no longer accessible and a friend no longer by his side. She smoothed out the knots between his brows with a gentle touch, whispered a wish for a good sleep in his ears, and replaced the cold arrows in his nightmares with twinkling mineral veins.

The musician sat unmoving from his spot at the furnace, a soft tune on his fingers and a fire in his chest. He hummed a loving song and she sang with him, reminiscent of friendship and pride and glory until the lyrics turned into a sob. She let a breeze blew out the sparks, so no one had to witness the leader’s tear.

The child of Nether dug out a cave and started sprinkling soil full of life into the lifeless land that is her. The stone was ordered to be soft and malleable under his pickaxe, the soil was urged to be fertile and fruitful under his hoe. Then she wiped the sweat from the troubled pink head, hearing the thousands of noises screaming and yearning. There is no need for bloodshed, she reassured them, there is no need for bloodshed in this quiet ravine.

 _Blood_ , they replied, and she sighed.

As the child of Nether lay on the ground asleep, once pristine sleeves caked in mud, she sang an ancient melody to the dormant seeds, waking them up to grow and feed her new residents. Her children were hungry and angry and waiting for a storm, but there was only so much she could do.

They expanded. The musician finally picked up a pickaxe and carved out tunnels and spaces. Rooms were cleared out, stairs were laid out, and _no_ railing was installed. She watched in amusement how the child of Nether bickered with him, putting down rough structures only to be destroyed again. In a whim of playfulness, she sent a whirl of the wind and giggled when the musician fell flat on his back.

“Elder-proof railings.” The monotone had a tinge of smugness, and she laughed with him, sending the torches to flicker.

Another young one ran to her at noon, soles lined with concrete dust and fingers smeared of ink, green shirt reeked of honey and wine, and a pair of small horns poked out of his hazelnut hair. The musician twirled and danced while keeping a firm hand on his shoulder, sketching out a utopia in his mind and laying a heavy task on his back.

His friend stood by the musician, hesitantly nodding alone. The young ones held each other when there were only them left, making empty promises and empty plans. She reached her arms around them, pulling at the wind and sheltering their unrealistic whispers from the world.

She watched warily as the young ram left her again, now head full of clouds and shoes full of lead, no longer the beekeeper the young one sat with in his dreams.

He promised that he would write.

A message came from him days later, carried by a honey-yellow messenger bird. The musician read about a man blinded with his ambition and greed, a man willing to claw over the land for his political pursuit, a man who tore families and friends apart. The young one dashed out before the child of Nether could stop him, and returned with soot on his shirt and smoke in his hair, a bright grin splitting on his face.

The first stone of war was cast. She can smell it in the air.

The young friends pulled away rocks and put down planks together to construct a path connecting her and the promised land. She reached out in curiosity, only to be repulsed by the corruption and conflicts plaguing the other side. The promised land was not as wonderful and perfect as promised.

At least the young friends got to reunite, albeit temporarily.

She did keep a keen eye around the shapeshifter who declared he would support their cause, not trusting his deception and ambition. Whispering warnings to the young one’s ears, she guided him through the twists and turns of the underground catacombs, away from the shifter and back to her. To be with the musician.

The musician was talking to himself again.

There was something twisted and shifted about him that made her uneasy. The fire in him burned cold and harsh and cannot be put out by soothing words or caring hands. She watched the arrows fell in his dreams times and times again, chipping him away and dropping him into a downward spiral to an abyss that she could not reach. Darkness corrupted his mind and madness painted his eyes.

She sang to him in his wake, wiped the cold sweat and tear away in his sleep, and make the fire in the furnace burn brighter to chase away the shadow and the cold. Nonetheless, the musician played the guitar less and less, and spend more and more time pacing the ravine rather than sleep.

After another sleepless night, he brought the agent of chaos to her.

She watched in horror as blocks of mass destruction and promises for chaos exchanged between them, only got tenser as the young one rushed in with a crossbow in hand and a scowl on his face. The being in a green cape turned to face her as the two argue, amusement clear on his lips.

“Enjoying the show?” He mouthed, before stepping forward to defend the musician.

The wind inside the raving howled angrily. She had no care for the promised land far away, but she cannot see her children falling further down into madness. The musician kept the blocks away like they are treasured gems, and told the child of Nether that he got an invite.

The young ram was cradled in the young one's arms when they returned from the so-called festival, skin carved with gunpowder and red dye. She breathed blessings and prayers into his body and watched the young one put him down gently, fury in his eyes and rage in his fists.

The musician was beyond amused, tapping out a joyful beat while a pit was carelessly dug out of her. The child of Nether twitched his ears, wiped the scent of burned flesh on his cloak. He made a wistful promise that was ignored, statics of conflicts filled the air. No understanding was had and no forgiveness was given.

She felt the blood drip and burn into her stones. Broken noses and fractured bones. Blood of her children. She cried in sorrow as the musician whooped with cheer, completely consumed by his unfathomable mind.

There's no going back.

Newcomers came to join them and Pogtopia grew in number. The young ram recovered to walk on his hooves and vowed to never go back. Baker with calloused hands and determined eyes, the shapeshifter now with an air of revenge, a trickster son who sought approval from the father.

She paid them no mind.

The child of Nether showed up less and less, always had a whiff of humid air around him whenever he did. She whispered reassurance to him as he quietly polished his sword, staying far away from the group. The voices pushed her back, filled her with the buzzing of demanding for blood and violence.

The musician also isolated himself, leaning against the stairs. He watched the flickering fire longingly, nimble fingers lovingly fiddled with the buttons adorned her walls. She can practically hear the storm at its strongest, stirring up the waves that will eventually sink the ship.

At least the young one was optimistic, blissfully enamored with the fact that people joined their cause despite all the different agendas hidden behind.

They regrouped one last time, before marching towards the common goal, this time with the child of Nether taking the lead.

The musician was the last to leave.

He took off his hat, a rare moment of peace and clarity on his face. Hovering his hand over his heart, the musician bowed to her.

"Thank you," He mumbled. "and farewell, my lady."

With that, her children left.

She waited.

Gasp and laughter and excitement radiated from the water nearby.

She waited.

Arrows rained down from the sky. Metal clanked and screeched against each other.

She waited.

A message was sent, announcing the end of tyranny.

She waited.

There was joy and cheer wherever she listened.

She waited.

Cursed creatures whirred to life, bringing destruction and fear to the world. The promised land howled in agony as Chekov's gun was sound, sending tremors down her veins.

She waited.

And she waited.

No one came.

Dust started to gather on the stairs with no railing. Cobwebs weaved around the chests where the rebels left their nonessential supplies. Some of the buttons fell off from their crudely carved out slots, littering along the wall. She tried to keep it alive, but the potato field eventually succumbed to the invading weed. One by one, the torches slowly ran out of fuel, leaving all traces of her former occupants in the dark.

A long time had passed before she was woken up again from the slumber. She watched the translucent visitor with no footstep stumbled through the disguised front, gasped as he lit up a torch.

She hovered close, taking in his curly hair and yellow sweater and a bloody gash on his chest. Her musician wobbled alone the crumbling walls, picking up a fallen button and chucking it into the extinguished bonfire. He explored the rooms and the hallways with a strange fascination, invisible feet brought no disturbance to the dust on the floor.

Her musician sat down on a workbench and pulled out a journal. A quill dipped gently in an ink sac before he paused, raised his head, and looked at nothing, looked at her.

"What's your name?" He mumbled.

 _Pogtopia_ , she answered with fleeting wind and twinkling gems. A whisper of sleepless nights and soft melodies, of meager supplies and rebellion plans. Different intentions gathered under the same roof that is her.

He waited, hummed, and started a new line just beneath "winning the election".

_A ravine._

**Author's Note:**

> Insipired by the "state of neglect" section of Pogtopia page on Dream SMP wiki.  
> I only tuned in the Dream SMP by the end of October and even then I only watched animatics and Techno's old videos, so I really had no attachment towards L'Manburg nor Pogtopia. I was cheering for L'Manberg's destruction on Dooms Day but Pogtopia, Pogtopia, man, it hits different.  
> Check out my other fics if you enjoyed this one <3.  
> You can also find me at [twitter](https://twitter.com/Corvusix_X) and [tumblr](https://corvusix-x.tumblr.com/)


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